Saturday 29 August 2015

WOMAN OF LEISURE


I believe in manicures. I believe in overdressing. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick. I believe in pink. I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and....I believe in miracles.- Audrey Hepburn

As she walked in, all heads turned.  A well dressed, good looking, well groomed lady. Soon she was the centre of all attention as she continued to enthrall the company in her soft, lazy, drawl. Her husband, a quiet businessman, was a strict teetotaler but she enjoyed her drinks and smoke.  From the beginning I was feeling a little out of place since I hardly knew anybody there except our hosts. I looked around. I was reminded of Eliot’s:

In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo”.

Partly out of politeness and partly out of boredom, I thought I should also try and get to know this charming lady around whom the whole gathering was swarming. So when I found her sitting quietly enjoying her wine, I mustered the courage to speak to her. After the usual perfunctory introduction from my side, I waited curiously to know what profession the lady was in. Must be from the advertising world or may be an entrepreneur ….more likely an interior decorator….my imagination was all stirred up. “I am a woman of leisure…” she drawled, “I do not believe in doing anything….” Having expected to hear a lot of interesting things, I was quite stumped!

This was some twenty years back when leisure was a word that did not appear in my daily routine. Each day passed in a whirlwind of activities- morning tea, breakfast, lunch box, kids, school, in-laws, cooking, chartered bus, office and again back to chartered bus, market, home, cooking, relatives, guests and, at last, some sleep. And here was this lady who called herself “A woman of leisure”. Who is this mythical character? I thought of looking it up in my spare time…

-A woman who does not have to work, especially because her husband earns a lot of money-(Macmillan Dictionary).

Oh! I should have been smarter when I chose a husband!

-A lady who is of independent means and so does not need employment; one who is free from duties and responsibilities.

Aah!! This was getting even more interesting- no boss to worry about, no in-laws to please, no explanations to give!!!

-An unemployed female or one who has retired from work.

Good, there was still hope-light at the end of the tunnel.

-Euphemestically-a prostitute.

No, no even she has to work for a living. A woman of pleasure too has to earn her leisure.

-It means a woman who does not have to work for a living either because she has a rich benefactor who gives her money or because she has inherited money.

More likely this was the case- an heiress! Do I have some long- lost Uncle who has amassed a fortune scouring the mines of Africa or drilling all the oil wells in Arabia? No, no such luck.

On one of my regular visits to my hometown Kolkata, I recall overhearing an extremely loud mother explaining to a small gathering of relatives that her daughter had managed to be selected in every interview she had appeared but she never took up a job. Hey, what is all this talk about experience, curriculum-vitae? In our time the CAT or MAT was not so much in vogue, but we did have our Civils and Probationary Officers’ exams to worry about. The mother continued her oratory, “She preferred her independence and her leisure rather than spend it in servitude.” Yes, we were the fools who thought taking up a job and standing on your own feet were signs of independence!  We should have instead utilized our time in hunting for richer husbands.

Anyway the tag of a ‘woman of leisure’ remained elusive for the next two decades as I continued in the role of a Public Sector executive with a 10 to 6 job where nothing interesting ever happened other than the fact that your bosses kept getting transferred, where you were a fool if you were regular or punctual and an even bigger fool if you took your job seriously and actually worked. Every task was ‘Important’ as long as you thought it to be. Pray do not take me seriously-just joking.

When, at last, I quit, imagining that the rest of my days would be spent sitting on a couch watching television or talking endlessly on the telephone with my feet neatly tucked in, I did not foresee the future. Actually, the image came from a colleague once saying, in a fit of frustration, that when she stopped working she would spend the whole day in a dressing gown like her mother- in- law watching television, applying mehendi and talking endlessly on the phone with her ‘kitty’ friends. We had all laughed at her but the image remained in some corner of my mind. Wishful thinking!! I had imagined that from now on I would also be a member of the enigmatic ‘women of leisure’ club.

As they say, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride them. By a twist of fate, leisure still remains as elusive to me as it was twenty years ago. I am more bound than I ever was. In fact, staying at home is quite a painful process. The whole world piles on you all that are ‘un-do-able’ by them since you are ‘not doing anything’. At least in office, among the few luxuries of a PSU job, tea and water would be served to you. The canteen boy always seemed to know when you needed a cup of strong coffee or when a bad throat called for a cup of hot tea with ginger and lime. The lady peon always reminded you “ Madam, kal se pani ka bottle nahi bharoongi, aap bilkul pani nahi pitey hain”. Now you want water or tea, help yourself; otherwise remain thirsty.

Very soon there is a reversal of roles at home. The lady of the house becomes the ‘domestic help’ while the ‘help’ now has her ‘9 to 5 jobs’ to handle and soon she is explaining to you the virtues of time management. She talks about her weekly and monthly offs while you do not even earn a leave!

Ever since I quit, I truly miss the canteen boy in my last office. By now, my readers must be thinking that my job entailed only gastronomic skills! How sweetly the lad would bring the tray and even gently remind me to eat the lunch before it got cold. While posted in Delhi, all the ladies in the office had to bear one cheeky fellow from the canteen who had a habit of drumming into everyone’s ears, “Aisi garam garam mathri toh aapki saas ne bhi kabhi nahi khilayi hogi” or “Aisi adrak wali chai toh aapki nani saas ke haath se bhi nahi pi hogi.” But, no matter what he said, his mathris were the best I have had so far! Yes, now lunchtime has certainly lost its flavour!

When I look back now, I can see things from a different perspective. Despite the mad rush, the feeling of ‘time’s winged chariot hurrying near’, the last minute telephone ring that can simply ruin a day, the never-ending chores, the life of a working woman is after all not too bad. It may not have tranquility of a life of leisure, the gentle rise and fall of a laid back life, but it has its own rhythm. A rhythm that has its cycle of pain and sacrifice just as it has its counter-cycle of pleasure and fulfillment. 

Recently, I visited my daughter, doing her residency as a part of her post graduate specialization programme. She lives with two other young girls-both resident doctors. If all these years, I thought I had studied, worked and served so hard, all  my labour was miniscule in comparison to the difficult  life each of these young doctors lead . They work anywhere between eighteen to thirty hours at a stretch, with hardly any time to eat or sleep. Leisure is something they are unfamiliar with. Yes, they do unwind and enjoy but that too for a very short time after having worked for, may be, anywhere between 100 to 130 hours a week. Even those snatched moments of relaxation come at a cost –the price paid being sleep and rest. No women of leisure are these young doctors!

‘The woman of leisure’ tag seems to have eluded both mother and daughter and their grandmothers and great-grandmothers before them. But, who knows, what the future holds? Anyway till then, cheers to all the ‘Women of Leisure’- you have at least lulled us into sweet dreams! May be, we will have our turn at another place, another time.


DS

Saturday 22 August 2015

EESH PHISH EELISH


I am a proud Bengali Bhadralok
Brought up in rightful tradition
Of admiring Robi Thakur, Netaji and Football
We may have our differences of red and blue colours
But one thing we Bengalis are united
Is our laabh (love) for Phish
When Mohun Bagan wins
We eat chingri (prawns)
When East Bengal wins
It is eelish(hilsa) time in Bengali homes.
Phish makes us Bengalis bhery intelligent
So we believe.

It was a Big Day
My laabhing Phaathar & Maathar- in-laws were coming
Ginni (Bengali for housewife) said get maachh
Not just any maachh
But Eelish, King of Phish
Get fresh good eelish
Tell your blaady Salauddin
If it is not
Maatha phatiye debo
In short, will break the fishmonger’s head if not good.

Meekly I took a tholi (bag)
In my Panjabi (kurta) and check- kata lungi
Went to bajaar
Salauddin was waiting
Dada come, come
Good eelish today
When I asked for the price
Babu, why worry
Enjoy phish and pay me later
Don’t pay if not good
This one is from Allahabad
This one’s from Howrah
And this speshaal is from Bangladesh
When I asked the price of the last one
Wished Salauddin would take EMIs at times.

Anyway took the full eelish home
Gave it to Ginni
Who stared at it
Flicked the gill to check
mmm…looks alright
As she washed the phish
I gave her a two rupee coin
She started removing the scales
I wonder why she can’t use
The same two rupee coin
To rub herself clean
Instead she goes to Femina Beauty Parlaar
And when she returns
She stands like model before me
And asks, how do I look
I find no difference in her
Between before and after parlaar
But have to say like phamous inglish singer
“Darling you look wonderful tonight”

Ginni then took out her boti
Boti is like a machete
With a wooden base
She sat down
Pulled up her saree…
No you blaady idiots, stop imagining!
Only a little bit up
Just up to her knee level
And began to cut the phish
While I stood behind a curtain
Like a little boy
Waiting for the ekjam rejalt to come out.
One strong stroke…swoosh
And the head gave way
She smiled as she saw the blood
Passed with distinction… said to myself
But seeing her with the head of phish
Remembered Ma Kali
She too stands with heads all over
With a khadga (curved sword) in hand
And chopped heads all over her
And when she realizes the one she was looking for
Is beneath her pheet
On realizing her folly
She sticks out her tongue…
Eeesshh what a mish!
This is my modern interpretation
Apologies to sentiments of others
Who may have heard otherwise
That’s Banglar Ginni
And you all thought
Bengali woman only dances
Like Madhuri with lal alta on feet
Swinging and singing dola re dola re dola
And the poor Bhadralok
Is even now always found like Shib Thakur
Right there below Ginni’s pheet!

Nothing of the eelish maachh is wasted
Tel or fish oil is a delicacy
Fry it and yum.. it tastes labhly with bhaat.
With its head you cannot make muri ghonto
(Please do not pronounce ghanta
Speak with marble in mouth
And you get correct way to speak Bengali)
You can however make chhachra
Which is cooked with pui saag.
Then there is egg (roe) of the phish
From which you make the tastiest pakoras
Better than the best caviar.
Then with the peti 
The triangular cut belly
You make eelish fry.
Put eelish in mastard oil
Bengalis like it best in this oil
The smell, the flavor, the crunchiness
Is best in mastard oil.
Ask any Bengali
He will tell mastard oil is best for heart
Best for putting on your skin in winter
Go east, go west
Mastard oil is the best.

With the rest you can do many a thing
Make simple jhol
Made in nigella seeds  and egg plants
Then there is shorshe eelish
This one is speshal
Made with mastard paste
The fish tastes heavenly
But it is not for the weak hearted
For it has a tang and taste which is unique.
Finally you could make the most special dish
Eelish maachher paaturi
Which is phish wrapped in banana leaves, then steamed
Baat remembar never eat phish with both hands
Bhery non Bengali like
Use only one hand
Lots of kaanta(bones) in eelish
No Bengali except possibly an Air Marshall
Has ever died singing
Kaanta laga…hai laga…kyon laga
Kaanta laga.

You may say Life is a Jhol, Maacher Jhol but honestly Ginni makes it taste wonderful, she is Bhery Good…upon God I say. Not joking, you know.

SS


Saturday 15 August 2015

INDEPENDENCE IS HAPPINESS

Rewind: 2015

Part 1: Classwork
All students to write in 100 words what Azadi means to you.

Answer:
Independence is Happiness

I knew a little birdie
Who’d come to my window everyday
She would chirp aloud
And dance merrily
I wanted her to be mine
Mine and mine alone
So got a beautiful cage
Coloured it nice and bright
Placed the best swing available
Kept two little cups
One for water, one for food
Put a musical chime as well
Opened the door and waited
She came
She saw
She wondered
And then she flew away
Never to come again
Till I did away with the cage
Now she’s back
Doing what she does best
Sing & Dance
I named her Miss Independence.

Part 2: Homework
Write an essay on what you did on 15th August 2015?

Answer:
Prayas- Educating Street Children

This 15th August, I went to a street corner where Prayas, an NGO working for education of street children organized the Independence Day celebrations. The children danced and sang patriotic songs.


And then met couple of remarkable human beings. 

First was Hari Bhai. He is one man who recollected his childhood when he did not have an opportunity to go to school and came to the city in a pair of half pants but through sheer hard work and intelligence today is in a position to support Prayas and many other individuals who need financial help. Hari Bhai presented the kids a small piggy bank and asked them to save a rupee coin whenever they wished to and said the money in the box will come to the rescue of their parents when they really need it. 

Wondered if this was the real Jan Dhan Yojana!


Next came on stage Saif, the choreographer of the show and was greeted by the kids with a thunderous applause. Saif has been associated with Prayas and their celebrations for the last six years. Saif called on stage around 5 or 6 other youngsters. After he was felicitated, Saif said that he comes back year on year to Prayas not from a charitable interest but from a selfish interest. Wondered what this could be because the NGO was in no position to pay him. He said he comes from a very poor household and is able to relate to the kids and connects  well with the kids. He said when he came for the show for the first time, he had little or no work but after doing the first one here, he was flooded with offers. So next year he asked another of his struggling colleague to oversee the celebrations at Prayas. This youngster too got many an offer after the show here. And so every year he lets a struggling person take charge of the show at Prayas while overseeing the show himself. The result is always the same. 

Wondered if the old saying of 'kar bhala toh ho bhala' still mattered and worked in today's world!

Finally, just as I was leaving saw 3 little kids smiling at me as they sat on the stage. They shook hands as they wished me Happy Independence Day. I took a picture of them and another girl passing by said they were all sisters.


Sana, Sadiqa and Mehek- what lovely girls and what a beautiful smile on each face. I smiled back and captured the sight for eternity. Happy that these kids are studying. Happy that their parents are letting them study. Happy that they will through education find their happiness in coming days. Happy that there are still good people in this world like I meet at Prayas who bring smiles all around in all the chaos, poverty and apathy.

Wondered if truly Independence is Happiness!
Maybe Being Human is Real Happiness!!
......................................................................................................................................................................

Fast Forward: 2021

Six years have gone by and I still make it a point to visit Prayas celebrating Independence Day. This year was different with no dancing, singing and long speeches. There were a handful of children and a few of us. The pandemic has wrecked havoc with the education of the children...they have lost almost two years of their best years and the damage to their learning is irreparable. The National Anthem was sung after the flag was unfurled...not by any leader or teacher but by three girls who had done well in the Higher Secondary Board Examinations. All the others who had successfully passed the class X and XII exams were given a token Rs 200 each. The amount may seem paltry to most but the smile and spark in the eyes of the beholders was magical...Happiness is growing up and earning your prize...Independence is Happiness.


While returning home after the celebrations in the park, met this charming kid. Sitting proudly in front atop the fuel tank of daddy's bike, with the flag fluttering in the wind, must be independence for the kid from her usual place of sitting in mummy's lap in the back seat. Truly,  Independence is Happiness. 


And finally a day, a time we have been longing for...a moment when 1.35 billion Indians would have stood up and the eight billion viewers world wide would have heard the beautiful anthem for fifty two second ending with Glory...Glory...Glory...Jaya Hey...Jaya Hey...Jaya Hey! Independence is Happiness.


Find your Happiness in Winning, Happiness in Growing up and Happiness in Being Human.
Jai Hind.

SS

Sunday 9 August 2015

KABULIWALAH

Meet Kamali Bai.


You can see her in the picture sitting right in the middle with a maroon dupatta. She is from Village Kural in Pali District of Rajasthan.  She is a Pashu Sakhi which literally translated means a Friend of Animals. And that is correct. In a village which is primarily dependent on growing maize, they have now with the help of local NGO been able to raise healthy goats which can be sold for meat. You may wonder…how cruel! This income helps them in a big way to raise about Rs 10,000 to Rs 12,000 in a year and take their annual income from a paltry Rs 33,000 to Rs 45,000. This part of India after 68 years of Independence is in a remote place which you and I will not otherwise visit but small changes are now visible. They today have hand pumps and do not have to travel miles in search of water. An electric line is there giving them hope that there will be power some day. While men work in the fields, women folk, after the household chores and taking care of the goats, have come together and formed self help groups contributing about Rs 30 per month and helping each other in times of need.

Kamali Bai was a promising young girl who with her grit and determination studied till class 5…incidentally there are no schools in the village. She would have gone ahead with further studies but social and financial problems prevented her progress. When the NGO came to the village 2 years ago, they identified Kamali and trained her. She now has the work of going from house to house telling the tribal folk about vaccinations, feeding habits and all other things which will help them reduce goat mortality, make them healthy which in turn will help them get better price. She has charts and a calendar to show things pictorially. What caught my attention when I saw her was a sparkle in her eyes, the determination in her voice and the confidence in her work despite her shy demeanor.  Kamali had an instrument in her hand which looked like a clamp…..foolishly I asked what it was. She blushed for once and my friend there told me that this equipment is used to castrate the goats!!! Castrated goats weigh heavier than others and get the villagers better return. Not all goats are castrated. The NGO there have brought in better goats from Sirohi District. So in order to maintain the quality of the better breed, the local ones have to bear the clamp…..40 years ago we too had this clamp working at great speed during the Emergency!



Kamali Bai is the ‘Veterinary Doctor’ of the village and I hope progress and development reaches Kural and many more villages and we have more Dr. Kamalis in every village.

Meet Chinamma.



 She is 8 years old and studying in a Corporation School in Chennai. Her father is a sweeper and she has 3 siblings. I met her recently during my visit to the school where there was an annual kit distribution ceremony organized by an NGO. This is an annual program where the girl child is given a new school bag which contains note books, stationery items, a rain coat and some undergarments. All this is to encourage the girls to come to the school more often and continue with their education. There were many like Chinamma who were excited for they were to perform before us a couple of dances, followed by speeches and then the kit distribution was to take place. 
As luck would have it, the same morning the electrical box of the school got burnt down and there was no power… how would they dance? They had been preparing for days now and they looked sad. One of the school teachers quickly had the presence of mind and used her cell phone and connected it to the speaker…Super Instant Indian ‘Jugaad’. For one song another teacher sang…I’m a Barbie Girl as two kids danced in merriment.  Speaking in Tamil is not my forte, in fact ,except Vannakam ,whatever little SRK taught us in Chennai Express is of little use. So I spoke in English and my colleague translated it in Tamil after every sentence. She must have done a good job for my otherwise simple talk was getting a huge applause after translation.



Chinamma danced beautifully and then sat down in one corner waiting for everything to get over. I noticed she was smiling all through the program and then when the final pictures were being taken she walked up to all four of the guests and offered each one a simple toffee. I was taken aback. Here I was thinking of doing great service and donating for the poor kids on behalf of my company and here comes a little Nanhi Kali who had taken that extra effort to take out some money and buy toffees for us. It hit me hard. Generosity and goodness is not in how much you have in your bank accounts and wallets but the thought in your mind and the good heart within that truly matter.
I blessed her and asked Chinamma what would you want to be when you grow up. She bowed her head, smiled a little and said, “A Doctor”.….Dr. Chinamma MBBS, her board would read, I thought, as I tasted the Best Toffee in the World.

Meet Dr.Anita.  



She is a resident doctor at KEM Hospital, Mumbai. You may not know her but she was in news recently. She was speaking about the life of a resident doctor in the civic hospital. She was speaking to news reporters after one of her colleagues had tried to commit suicide for being unable to take the work load. Dr. Anita said that residents are expected to put in twice a week 30 hours of non-stop emergency duty plus on all the remaining 5 days they have such work load which gives them only a couple of hours to sleep. They hardly go to their dingy hostel rooms and many a times just find an empty bed somewhere to catch up on a couple of minutes of much needed sleep. It is both surprising and sad to know a majority of them are on anti-depressants!

To add to this is the other worry of security and dignity. The other day a patient’s relative slapped an urologist, who is doing her post doctoral training , while she was preparing for an operation just because she had asked the relative to wait for some reports… Ms Barkha Dutt never loses a minute on a dog being killed in some outpost in Manipur, Rahul Kanwar will make you weep just because the government has planned to ban child porn and yet Arnab for once does not want to know, neither India wants to know the sad state of doctors and their lives. How easily we pay the plumber Rs 500 for touching our Jaguar tap which is not working properly or a TV mechanic Rs 1000 for telling you that the set needs to be replaced but if a doctor were to charge the same amount for his consultation we feel so robbed and cheated…Chor hai …

Will Dr. Anita and her tribe get a better fate in coming days?

Meeting the three Doctors- Kamli, Chinamma and Anita, I too remembered my Little Doctor who is fifteen hundred kilometers away. Here I was , a modern day Kabuliwalah, working my way at another city, another world I  I opened up my albums and profile pictures in the FB and WhatsApp, saw her smiling face…My Khokhi must now be a grown up girl managing everything all alone…when will I see her again…


SS

(PS. Real names of protagonists have been changed. All pictures are original except the doctor which is taken from the net)

Sunday 2 August 2015

THE GUAVA TREE


“Turn wheresoe’er I may,
  By night or day,
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more.”- William Wordsworth


I remember (echoes from Thomas Hood) the little guava tree that grew on one side, or rather one corner of the house, between the lawn and the extreme end of the bungalow. It stood just outside the window of the guest room. This was the earliest house I remember growing up in- 11, Sunset Avenue, Chittaranjan . Yes, of the Locomotives Works fame. Beyond the pebbled driveway and the front gate was the last street in the colony and beyond the road just open fields. The street, lined by the tall devdaru trees(Indian Mast trees), was the kind you read about in books- quiet, peaceful, no traffic, at the most a few tribal women passing by or a couple of cyclists. If you walked across those fields, which we often did to catch tiny fish with “gamchhas” which served as miniature nets in the many little ponds and streams sprinkled all over, you could see at a distance where Bengal merged into Bihar. As the name suggests this street had the most glorious view of the sunset every evening. With one master stroke the sky in front would change from blue or grey into myriad hues!

This tree stood all alone, separated from its brethren who were all on the other end of the bungalow in a little orchard of ten or twelve guava trees. This one was a little different, not very big and bore the most awesome guavas I have ever tasted in my life…small, light green outside, soft and strawberry pink inside, almost seedless and oh so very sweet! Its other cousins bore very big, round guavas, may be they were pulpier, bigger and juicier but, in my honest opinion, came nowhere close to this one.  All around the lawn grew beds of season flowers… petunias, pansies, asters, chrysanthemums, carnations, phlox, antirrhinums, dahlias, gerberas, zinnias and of course my father’s pets, the roses. There were so many of them- Black Prince, Montezuma, Papa Meilland, Peace, the Floribundas … maroon that almost verged on black, orange, amber, cream, white, pink. They were the loves of his life! He knew how to grow them, care for them, knew everyone of them by name. The pains he took to get all his plants, seeds, books and other garden accessories from Suttons! He may not have promised us rose gardens but he sure gave us one! The guava tree stood right on the edge of this lawn in one corner between our home and Gulistan.

About five or six feet from the ground the tree branched into a neat Y and for a six or seven year old this nook between the two arms provided the perfect seat for a recliner. There I would spend many a lazy afternoon biting into a semi-ripe guava or playing a game in my own little fantasy land. Sometimes I was the princess imprisoned up there in the tower letting my hair down (usually a towel), sometimes the sailor in a ship who on sighting a strip of land was crying out ‘Ahoy’! Yes, those afternoons belonged to me… “that was when I ruled the world….” The garden, the fruit orchard, the courtyard behind the L-shaped bungalow (which had been converted into a badminton court), the long verandah, the hencoops, the raised ‘plateau’ behind the house where the vegetables grew, the outhouses where most of my companions lived (they would have to change roles from the Prince to the ship mates depending upon the scene being enacted), all belonged to me.

Then came the season for the guava jam … cutting, peeling, stirring and straining till all the bottles, jars, cans in the house were filled with this mouth-watering, divinely sweet, translucent reddish jam. There was so much of excitement and activity in the house for a few days, almost like a picnic. My Aunt, who once visited us around this time, kept telling my mother to hurry up with the stirring and bring down the huge vessel from the fire before one of the kids, who had gathered there and were taking turns in peering into it, fell inside!

Then there were the guava eating competition we kids had amongst ourselves. Once I had fourteen of them one afternoon and at night had to be rushed to the nearest hospital, which was in Asansol, with a severe tummy ache and lot of vomiting. Anyway, soon the doctors realized, after wriggling the truth out of me, that it was not a case of appendicitis, as the local physician had suspected, but behind all the rumbling, tumbling, growling were undigested seeds of the fourteen guavas which had been consumed with so much of enthusiasm and relish not too long ago. On my way to the hospital in the ambulance everyone had been very sympathetic. However, the same cannot be said about the return journey by car. The verbal lashing I got from one of the neighbourhood Aunties, who had volunteered to accompany us to the hospital, is best left unsaid!!The humiliation was so severe that I still fear to swallow guava seeds to this day!!

The night before Saraswati  Puja, my father kept vigil over his paradise along with his Man Friday, Bhola, whom I have already introduced in my earlier blog. My father had no problems if someone asked him for some flowers. In fact, he would allow the Santhal women, who went to work singing and dancing, to enter the gates and pick flowers, fruits, twigs or dry leaves since they always took permission and never trespassed. But he had a major problem with the local boys who came from the neighbouring areas to steal flowers at night for the next morning’s puja. And he knew his garden flaunted the most prized roses, dahlias and chrysanthemums. On one such night we were woken up to a lot of commotion outside. Chor! Chor! Yes, they usually chose to strike just before daybreak! Anticipating a lot of action, we all gathered on the verandah in the wee hours of the morning of one Saraswati Puja…the eastern sky was already resplendent in all shades of pink and coral. The focus was my favourite haunt- the little guava tree. There was a thin skeletal figure in rags sliding down the trunk of the tree.  As luck would have it, it all ended in a big anti-climax. He was just a poor beggar who had chosen the protection of our garage that night to protect himself from the cold. He had been doing that for a week or so. He was so thin and frail and insignificant that no one had noticed him earlier. That fateful night, unable to resist the temptation of those guavas hanging from the trees, he had chosen to pick a few and find his way out before the break of dawn. Unfortunately, he did not know that it was the night of my father’s annual vigil. Out fell a dozen of those guavas from his tattered loin cloth. Anyway, as was expected, my father let him scoot with his loot and we were ordered back to bed. The fellow was lucky he had no taste for flowers, especially roses!!

I can just go on and on…woh kagaz ki kashti woh barish ka pani …The guava tree stood witness to all my escapades, my fantasies, my tears, my joys and sorrows. Under it I would shed big tears as I waited for my Baba to return from office to report to him how my mom that afternoon had banged my head against the table and even show the lump on my forehead as proof. My otherwise mild father could be very stern with people who believed in corporal punishment!! It was my retreat in bad times, my safe haven when I needed to escape. From sailing little boats in puddles formed during the rains under its branches, idling on a makeshift swing hung from one of its branches or simply enjoying a picnic with my playmates cooking khichdi on a toy stove under its shade.

As with everything in this world, we have to let go and what remains with us is just the memory. As the years rolled by, we moved on to bigger and bigger cities and smaller and smaller apartments. From my seventeenth floor apartment windows I still see the sunrise, the sunset, the rain, the storm, the gulmohar trees in full bloom but as if on a canvas or a photograph…I can see them all but I cannot touch, feel or smell anything . My little guava tree is gone forever.


DS